Rain in its Season
by Mlle Passpartout
Summary: AU, Storybrooke. Isabelle French reflects on the six months leading up to the day of a very important funeral.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Something a little bit different, short and sweet, just two parts. AU Storybrooke from a prompt: "It rained the day of the funeral, as it should." Hope you all enjoy, and feel free to R&R if you'd like!

* * *

This day had been long coming. There was no denying it, she thought as she stood with her black umbrella shielding her from the onslaught of raindrops the size of pebbles. It always seemed to rain at funerals, she thought sadly.

Looking at the front of the Church, Isabelle froze at the bottom step. If she climbed up, it became real. She just had to stand for a minute, suspended from this place as she stared at the foreboding façade. The past six months flooded her memory in full force, an all encompassing blow to her senses.

* * *

Issy had seen the change sooner than anyone else had. She knew him far too well to be fooled. It had all started with the bags under his eyes and the slope of his shoulders. Then, there the afternoons off from the flower shop and he started to shed weight, slowly at first. There were other signs, tired eyes, lack of appetite.

"How are you feeling, Dad?" She'd asked every morning as she set out breakfast.

The reply was always the same, "Never better, darling." Then he'd press a kiss to her temple, squeeze her shoulder, and sit down at the table, waiting for her to join him. They pretended nothing was going on, and then go about the day, facing it without her help or support from the other.

She made his favorite dinners more and more often, meat and potatoes, the heartiest stuff she could manage, and at first, it was like nothing changed. But, as the weeks wore on, he started to pick at it like a bird –green up to his eyes, despite the way he smiled and reassured her it was delicious. Issy always had a mostly full plate to clear off before he trudged to bed, the once proud man crooked with pain.

* * *

One early morning, she woke up to find him standing in the bathroom over the sink, once powerful hands gripping the porcelain round, his head hanging down. She sucked in a sharp breath, seeing his graying hair all over the sink and his electric razor sitting in the part of the sink usually reserved for soap. "Dad?" she asked tentatively, leaning against the door frame.

He turned his face slowly; she could see the forced smile on his face, and Issy's heart clenched. "Did I wake you up, Issy? I'm sorry."

Issy put her hand to her chest and shook her head. "No, no. I was going to make breakfast." She didn't want to distress him, he already looked distressed. "Do you need help cleaning up?"

Her dad shook his head, pushing himself up straight, avoiding eye contact. "No, no. It's fine. You go make breakfast," he smiled at her, but it was hollow. Issy returned the expression.

She started to walk away, but stopped, leaning back and looking through the doorway again. "By the way, Dad," she waited until she had his attention from scooping bits of hair out of the sink, "I like the new look. Very handsome," she assured him, and no response was necessary. The subtle shake in his shoulders told her it was time to walk away, and she silently moved away from the door way, hearing a harsh, broken sob ring in the echoing bathroom.

Issy's heart broke. He didn't want to tell her, and Issy didn't want to push him – it was no situation either wished to deal with. She decided she'd make the best breakfasts he ever had every morning from now on.

* * *

When they sat in the flower shop, they'd reminisce about how he taught her all about the different rose hybrids and how to properly monitor the nutrition in soil. Part of her thought he was testing her, making sure she knew, and she did, she was a good student. It put him at ease, somewhat, and Isabelle would do anything to give him peace of mind, including waxing on days past with nostalgic smiles and glimmering eyes.

"Do you remember," she mused on one such afternoon as she worked on a flower arrangement meant to be sent to Ruby – all red, white and powerful, strangely enough from Dr. Hopper. Issy was a florist though, not an analysis, and she couldn't figure out most people in town – this flower arrangement wasn't going to start her speculation, "the summer we spent almost every sunset on the beach, Dad?"

Seated behind the counter, head propped on his hand, Moe looked like he might fall asleep. His dull eyes seemed to return with a burst of light though, and his lips quirked into a smile, "It took you so long to get the hang of that kite," he started to laugh. Isabelle's grin faltered though, when he began to hack.

She bit her lip and shook her head. "You were very patient with me," she doted, plucking out one of the tulips and replacing it with a sprig of baby's breath, "even though you wanted to destroy the kite after three days." It was like it happened yesterday, he cursed at the kite every time the line got caught, and every night they left, he would swear he was going to get a new one the next day. They never did.

Seeing him smile made her heart swell, and Issy wrinkled her nose at him, "Well, I would have just thrown the thing away if you didn't give me that tantrum face" he grinned, truly teasing her for what felt like the first time in ages.

Issy laughed brightly, wrinkling her nose at him. "Tantrum face? I have never thrown a tantrum in my life," she giggled, stepping back from the vase to examine the work she already did, screwing her face in concentration. Something didn't seem right…

Her father raised his eyebrows at her, running his hand over the smooth expanse of his rounded head before tugging his hat back on. "You'd like think that, wouldn't you?" he smirked, leaning against the counter, looking at her like she was the most precious thing on the planet. "I was just lucky your mother stamped most of them out before…" As soon as the words left his mouth, they were both quiet. The air in the flower shop became heavy. It hit too close; even if he never told her, they both knew: both of her parents would die from different flavors of the same poison.

* * *

She started taking over more of the functions of the shop. All of the watering, pruning, making orders, taking orders, opening, and closing – it was on a rare occasion that he manned the register, and most of the time he didn't show up at all. His excuse was always "I'm just going for a walk." He couldn't even climb the stairs without getting short of breath. Issy forced smiles and helped him out, pretending she didn't see him getting in their beat up truck and head down the street toward the hospital.

Pretending used to be so easy, but once it wasn't about playtime and girlhood fantasies, every smile she sent her father's way seemed connected to her tear ducts, but she refused to cry. He was a fighter – they were fighters, and they could get through it. Maybe that was just another fantasy to play at, but she clung to it desperately all the same.

On an afternoon when her father went for his 'walk,' a stranger long unseen in Game of Thorns entered the shop. She was watering the lilies, some of her favorites amongst the stock when she heard the door swing open and then the ominous tap… tap… on the linoleum floor. "Miss French," her name rolled off his tongue and Issy turned, surprise etched one her face. His countenance was cool, and he gripped the handle of his cane with gloved hands, "I hope this is not a bad time."

She forced herself to stand tall and smooth her dirty hands on the gardening smock she always wore in the shop. "No, not at all," her voice was rough as gravel, hitched in her throat, but she cleared it with a cough, and licked her lips: she had to do this. "Can I help you, Mr. Gold?"

He stood stock still for a moment and Issy felt very exposed, the over-sized green watering can's weight making her hands and arms shake – at least that's what she told herself. When he started to speak again, he moved further into the shop, closer to her and her throat hitched. "Is your father in today?"

The way he asked informed her that he was very much aware of the fact her father was not indeed in the shop that day, but she bit her tongue, hoping that pleasantries would make him leave her in peace much faster. More flies with honey, and all that. "No – he went for a walk this afternoon." The euphemism was pathetic, but she hadn't spoken the words to anyone, not even to herself, and didn't imagine she would start with Mr. Gold.

"Of course," the words mulled in his mouth, the way one might imagine the cement does in a tumbler, and his fingers flexed around the gold handle of the cane. She felt a shiver down her spine, not entirely sure why, and he turned his gaze on her. She felt stricken by his gaze, so piercing, and Issy felt like she shrank under the intensity of it, looking like a child playing with her watering can, rather than the functioning owner of the business. "Do you know when he will return?"

Issy spoke before she even registered what she was saying. "I can handle it, Mr. Gold." Her voice didn't even shake as she said it, surprising not only herself, but obviously the man across from her in the very empty shop by the expression on his face.

"Alright," he said tentatively, and squared his shoulders. She found herself following the gentle roll back and over the tailored shoulder of his suit, and she gulped. This was business; she had no time to think ridiculous thoughts. "I came to collect the loan payment." Her eyes widened, unsure of what loan he was speaking of – there were so many piling up, and he sighed, "Two-hundred fifty, dearie."

Another tingle traveled down her spine, the way he said 'dearie' it was like lightening. Something ticked in the back of her mind, like it was familiar. She placed the watering can on the ground and moved to the register. "Just a second," she licked her lips and punched in the code for the drawer. She already knew what was going to greet her.

He inclined his head, nodding patiently, and Issy watched the draw pop out with a clang. It was everything in the store, all she had access to without getting in the account, and that was woefully empty – she knew that much. There was barely one hundred dollars in it, and she gulped, looking up. The look on Mr. Gold's face was not one of surprise – or amusement. "There's only… $115 here, Mr. Gold."

"Well, that will not do, Miss French." His voice was hard and unrelenting. Issy gulped, taking the money out of the drawer with a deep breath. "I'll be needing something to make up for the difference."

Issy looked down to the money in her hand hands, and didn't have to look any further. There was a plain band on her finger, thin gold wires woven together in an intricate, but solid pattern. It had been her mother's. "Could I… give you something until I have the money?" she asked cautiously – it sounded rather like a deal, and if there was one thing she knew, it was navigating a deal with this man was walking on a tightrope.

He raised his eyebrows at her, begging her to continue and Issy put the money down in the tray, fiddling with her ring until it came off. The pale spaces where the thin gold had been blocking the subtle tan on her skin. "I have this," she walked around the counter, holding the ring that once belonged to her mother up, "I'll leave it with you," she gulped, giving over something so precious was so hard, but she needed to do it. She couldn't make her father worry about this too, "until we get the money."

Gold plucked the ring from between her fingers and examined it momentarily. "This is a valuable little trinket, Miss French," he murmured, holding it in the palm of his hand. "Worth more than $250."

Issy nodded knowingly. "Can it give us a couple of months?" Of peace, of rest, without worry… They needed all of these things and more. Issy anticipated it would be the last time in a long time she would not have to worry about her debts.

The corner of his mouth ticked upward, a small shake of his head as he pocketed the gold band. "Dearie, the $250 was for only one of your father's…. substantial loans." He let the words sink in, and Issy's heart dropped, "with all debts combined? This will get you one month."

"Only one month?" she asked, barely believing it. What kind of debt was her father in? Wasn't that something she should know? "Mr. Gold…" her voice trailed off as she wrung her hands together, biting on her lip. "That's nothing."

"Nothing?" he raised his eyebrows. "A month is quite generous for a little gold token like this," he unclenched his hand around the ring, showing it to her again, as though she did not know what it was, and tucked it back in his pocket.

Issy crossed her arm under her chest, rubbing her temple. "My father," she started, "he's not well, Mr. Gold." It was the first time she had actually said it, under circumstances she hadn't expected. She thought maybe she would confide in Mary Margaret, maybe Granny, or even Emma Swan, but Mr. Gold? It seemed impossible. She ran her hand over her face and she heard Mr. Gold shift his weight from his good leg more onto his cane.

"And this concerns me because…?" he didn't understand, he couldn't possibly, and the way he asked that question, as if the answer wasn't blatantly obviously, Issy bristled.

Her hands fell to her sides, fists balled with aggravation. "It's not as though it's just a cold," Isabelle was so serious the space above and behind her eyes actually started to throb. "He's," she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She met his gaze and despite the throb in her head and the grumble of her stomach, she finally admitted it: "He's has a lot to deal with – I don't want this…" she gesticulated between them, "to make him worse."

"That's unfortunate," he said blandly. Issy knew there was no love lost between them, but it did not mean her cheeks didn't flare in anger at his flagrant disregard for her father's situation.

"That's all you have to say? It's unfortunate?" her voice lilted into a higher pitch, trying to reign in her anger and stop herself from punching him. She had to resolve that she would not punch a man who used a cane, even if he deserved it. "We've got medical bills, Mr. Gold, and your loans – our store and personal accounts are empty. I don't have anything else to give you."

He gave her a tight lipped smile, probably lamenting that there was no such thing as debtors' prison anymore, and he looked at her. "You'll inherit his debts, you know."

Issy nodded, knowingly. "I'm aware."

"It's a considerable sum, Miss French, and those medical bills, I'm sure, will not be paying themselves." If he had a knife lodged in her chest, he could not have twisted it farther. She was already six feet under, how much more could she take before they were absolutely ruined? She nodded, silently, in agreement. "How do you intend to get the… capital to manage?"

The question was forward, and Isabelle bit her lip. She had no idea. "Working here," she motioned around the flower shop that could really use a make-over, as sad in appearance as it was financially. "I guess I'll need a second job," she added with a shrug, "I'm not afraid of hard work."

Mr. Gold seemed to examine her more closely at this. He inclined his chin upward and glanced over her, from top to toe – causing Isabelle to stand just a little taller. "I think I've got just the job for you," he was calculated and deliberate. "Come by my shop, tomorrow," and he plucked a single red rose from the display, long stem still untrimmed, and brought it to his nose.

Isabelle regarded him suspiciously, but she couldn't turn down anything at this point. "Alright…" she said slowly, and he nodded at her, turning and placing the rose on the counter before he walked out without another word.

Isabelle did not know what she was doing, but it left her with a strange and unsettled feeling. If it was to give her Papa piece of mind though, she'd take care of everything.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Just to warn you, a bit of harsh language toward the end. The F-Bomb does get dropped, so if you're sensitive to language, beware! Otherwise, I don't own OUaT and please, enjoy!

* * *

Isabelle would never admit out loud how much she did not mind working at Mr. Gold's shop four nights a week. She walked in anticipating hating ever second, but was pleasantly surprised. Most afternoons, he gave her instructions, and then he disappeared in the back room – unless of course, the bell on the door was disrupted and someone came in, but that hardly ever happened. It was usually just the two of them – and it wasn't uncomfortable.

Any time she found herself doing a task she deemed unpleasant, she just reminded herself the hours spent dusting and arranging were chipping away at the considerable debts her father amassed over the years, so that he could rest, without worry. Mr. Gold wasn't a bad boss – just a… demanding one. He kept her from four thirty to eight o'clock, never earlier and never later, and had offered to pay her far more than she expected. Isabelle did not argue.

Now, of course, it was her turn to withhold some truth. She told her father she had picked up a side job at the bookstore, so he wouldn't worry, and it seemed to sit well with him, knowing how much she loved to be around books. He didn't ask any questions and they were better for it.

One evening, the only sound in the apartment outside of the water simmering in the kettle was the static on the TV; her father looked up at her from his over-sized and overstuffed arm chair. He used to fill it like a king, now he sank into it like a child. "Have we taken care of the bills this month, Issy?" he looked anxiously at her bare hand.

The silent appraisal did not escape her, and Isabelle shook her head. She couldn't be upset about it. She had taken care of the bills for this month, the previous month, and was working on the next one already. Her effort was paying off, but she kept her secret guarded close. Taking her eyes away from the kettle, she looked at him with such softness. "Of course, Dad. Don't worry," the vigil by the tea pot was quitted briefly so she could kiss the top of his head – he smelled sanitized, like the hospital. "I'm taking care of everything."

He put his hand on top of hers, so much smaller than she ever remembered. It was funny, how someone she had once seen as a conqueror who could slay every dragon and defeat every villain ever could seem so fragile. "I'm so proud of you."

"I'm proud of _you,_" she added, squeezing his hand and gasping as the kettle started to whistle. "Just sit tight," she patted his cheek with a smile and darted back into the kitchen, ready to prepare their tea – their evening ritual.

* * *

The weeks were getting harder. Isabelle was exhausted. She stayed up most nights, either listening to him coughing, or vomiting. When she tried to help, he sent her away, but Isabelle refused to crack. She just told him she'd be in his room if he needed anything. He never called for her. It was starting to drive her mad, at least she felt like it.

Her only respite, as much as she did not want say it, was spending those afternoons at Gold's Pawn Shop. Even if all she thought about was her father, she couldn't see him, wasting away into nothingness. Isabelle couldn't stand to think she was losing him so quickly…

All these thoughts filled her head as she rubbed small circles with the damp cloth over the surface of the cup. "How is your father, Miss French?" he asked her one evening, out of nowhere as he sat perched behind the register – uncommon enough as it was, she hadn't paid him any mind since she started working. They hardly spoke, and Isabelle jumped as his words crawled over her back and tingled up her spine, and the cup tumbled from her hands – her breath hitched in her throat.

The delicate cup clattered to the ground and she gasped, a sizable chunk taken out of the rim. "I'm so sorry! Oh no, no, no," she cried, instantaneously crouched to salvage the poor thing, fearing not only for its value, but the price added to her head. Just another pebble on the mountain of debt, "It's chipped," she bit her lip, holding it up.

The man everyone decried as a monster looked down at her, jaw slackened and eyes all astonishment. She didn't know what to make of the expression, and she stared at him, waiting for something until he cleared his throat. "It's just a cup," came out strangled, and Isabelle put it back on the tray after standing up, smoothing out her skirt.

"I'll just… sweep up," she murmured, and suddenly, he was next to her, stilling her shaking hand – when had he gotten so fast? And she looked at him, her shoulders falling. She just wasn't doing anything right recently, the burdens catching up to her. "I'm sorry," her voice trembled. Mr. Gold kept his hand on her arm, searching her face and Isabelle felt her resolve chipping away, just like the damn cup she just ruined. "I'm so sorry," her voice cracked one final time before she tugged her arm away and covered her face, "Excuse me," and ran toward the back door, holding in her sob until she was outside.

The back alley was private; hot, angry tears streamed down her face. She hadn't cried – she had refused to cry, _crying is giving up on something, _she'd always been taught, and now, here she was – embarrassing herself behind Mr. Gold's shop, kicking rocks as hard as she could against the brick building. It wasn't fair, and she couldn't make sense of it. How could she lose both of her parents and be left alone like this?

With a frustrated, muffled scream, Issy leaned her forearms against the back of the building, her forehead nestling in the crux of both. She heard the soft click of the door open, but she was absorbed, trying to unsuccessfully quell all of the sadness and despair she had held in since she figured it out.

It wasn't until a moment later, when she felt a hand on her shoulder that she looked out of the corner of her reddened eye, "You're free to go for tonight, Miss French." And in that moment, all Isabelle could do was throw her arms around his neck and hold on, so thankful for the consideration, she started to cry anew. An awkward hand found its way to her back, and those small circles her drew were the first bit of comfort she felt in so long.

She buried her head in his shoulder, feeling the tightening of his muscles against her, and she just breathed in. He smelled like memories. There was leather and firewood, and straw? Isabelle breathed in deep, spent of her welled up frustration, anger, anxiety, and sadness, and just… was.

She felt like she was somewhere else, in a different time, and when she glanced upward, his eyes were closed, leaning his cheek into her hair. At her slightest movement, she felt his fingers dig into her back, holding on – though Issy couldn't tell why. She didn't know what to make of it, but maybe she didn't need to make anything. She rested her forehead against his shoulder again, breathing in a smell so familiar it made her dizzy with longing for something she didn't even know.

She felt one of his hands rustling near her face and opened her eyes, realizing a purple, silken handkerchief was being offered. Issy took it with a very quiet, "Thank you." She brought the token to her nose, but instead of using it, she inhaled. It smelled like memories too.

* * *

"What's wrong, Sweetheart?" her father asked through tired eyes, finally after two days of moping around the house, she gingerly crawled onto the couch next to him and draped his arm over her shoulder. She suddenly thought of how she missed the smell of leather and straw.

Isabelle shook her head, grabbing the TV remote and turned it over in her hands as she tried not to put too much of her weight onto him. "Nothing," she lied, "I think Cupcake Wars is on." She went to flick on the TV, but he stilled the remote and lowered her hand before he took her chin and turned her face toward him.

This was not what she imagined for herself at twenty-six years old, watching her father waste away in front of her, working full days at a flower shop, four nights a week at a Pawn shop with a boss who she understood so well – and yet not at all. It was all so confusing. "Issy," his voice was soft and resigned. She closed her eyes, "I'm sorry."

He knew- it wasn't hard to know, after all, the way she doted and the bills finally starting to roll in. She wanted to just hold onto him and cry, but when her eyes fluttered open, and he looked so pained – so tired, the desire was immediately squashed. "Me too," she responded simply and laid her head back down on his shoulder, like she did when she was so small, and moved his arm to hug around her middle.

He flicked on the TV, the History Channel – some rerun or another coming in through the fuzz in the television, it was always fuzzy, and Isabelle closed her eyes, listening to talk of aliens building pyramids or something silly like that when her father's hand moved and she blinked. "Issy?" his voice was concerned.

"What Dad?" she opened her eyes slowly and tried not to react as she realized the strange sensation she felt from her back pocket was now dangling in between her father's thin fingers. The purple handkerchief fluttered just slightly from the breeze coming in through the open window.

"What's this?" he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

She knew he had never seen her with something like that before, and she snatched it – delicately – out from between his fingers, smoothing the fabric while she tried not to blush. "A handkerchief," she finally pointed out, and left it at that.

She could see the questions in her father's face, but she did not feel like answering them, instead, shoving the folded square back into her pocket, and curling back up into his side. "Can you believe this," she motioned to the TV. "Aliens? Honestly?" And the subject was dropped.

* * *

They spent more time together in the shop. Suddenly, she realized how lonely it must have been, being surrounded by things that couldn't talk or offer any warmth with their company. It seemed he thought the same, since he didn't retreat from her company into his dragon's lair in the back anymore.

She prepared tea sometimes, in that set that couldn't be sold with a piece broken. When she offered to pay for it, he refused, and no mater how many times she asked, the answer was always the same – so she stopped asking. That seemed to please them both.

As they sat at the counter, he behind it, and she in front, teacups filled and little tags spilling over the edges – the smell of peppermint and calm wafting up from the hot cups, Isabelle sighed. "Why did you ask me to work for you, Mr. Gold?" she asked the question that bothered her more than she cared to admit, flicking the little tag in the teacup, just to avoid meeting his eyes. She saw enough by the shift in his posture – straighter, more formal, that he was uncomfortable. She didn't need to see it written on a face she had once thought old and hard, but now described as distinguished.

She heard the click of his tongue against the top of his mouth. He probably licked his lips; he always licked his lips when he was thinking. When had she started noticing? Her troubling thoughts were interrupted by his words, and she couldn't avoid looking at him now, "This place was in need of a good scrub down, and you said you weren't afraid of hard work."

His eyes betrayed his smirk. "Really, though," she swirled a bit of sugar into the mix, finding it too bitter for her taste. "You could easily have just taken our store or the apartment? Why give me this chance?" She lifted the teacup to her lips, glancing downward into the cup.

"Everyone deserves a second chance," he murmured into the rim of his cup, and got that faraway look that meant he was thinking of something that she couldn't know, something that seemed like it must have happened lifetimes ago, but still resonated with him.

He was far more complex than Isabelle imagined, having heard of him from others. Once she dealt with him herself, he was not exactly kind, that wouldn't be the first word she picked to describe him, but he… had depth. "Thank you," she reached across the counter and put her free had over his, quirking a small smile at him.

He turned his hand and gripped onto the ends of her fingers, sending a million little lightening bolts through her. He didn't need to say anything, and they sat comfortably in silence at least for a few moments, forgetting both of their misfortunes.

* * *

It seemed strange, that when her whole world was falling apart, Mr. Gold was the only thing keeping it together. While the flower shop was faltering and depressing, the endless stories and surprises in the Pawn Shop kept her going. Her father's lethargic presence, or noted absence was balanced by Mr. Gold's ever presence in that space. The sound of the watering machines echoed her tears, while the silence in the pawn shop was… for lack of a better word, golden.

People said Mr. Gold destroyed things, that he took without mercy and refused to give, but Issy didn't see it that way. She saw a different side of him, she imagined, than anyone else. This was a man who knew loss, and he hurt, just like everyone else. The difference was, no one else had taken the time – or found the opportunity, to know that.

"Miss French," he broke the silence one day, this time no teacup faced its doom, instead, the feather duster stilled in her hand, and she looked over her shoulder. He was hobbling out of the office in the back, probably needed something, and Issy climbed off the step stool.

"It's Issy," she offered, "I've been working here for almost four months, it's just Issy." The look on his face was conflicted and she sighed, "Isabelle, if you prefer to be more formal."

He breathed deeply, still unsettled, but shrugged. "Very well, Isabelle," she shivered at the way her name sounded tumbling out of his mouth in that Scottish burr. "I wanted to talk to you regarding a payment?"

Her eyes widened and her heart seized. Had she done something wrong? The payments had been coming in steadily, and she thought she was making dents – small ones, but dents nonetheless – in the mountain of debt accumulated. "O-of course," her voice trembled, but his face remained unchanged. She feared, for some reason, that she had been wrong, and that everyone else had been right – maybe he did destroy everything…

With a wave of his elegant hand, Mr. Gold summoned her to his office – a place she had only been once, the day she came to meet him, and then avoided at all costs. It was a cramped space, though there was a desk with one plush chair behind it and one in front of it. "Sit," he ordered, and Issy obeyed without question. He took a little longer getting to his seat, leaning the cane against his desk, and licked his lips. "I believe," he started, filling Issy's heart with dread, "There was a matter we agreed to before you began working for me?"

The surprise of the statement knocked Issy for a loop, and her jaw hung open without words to come out. He was pawing through his desk, and Isabelle just stared dumbly, "I – I'm not sure," she finally managed to squeak, her hands wringing in her lap.

"Yes," she did not know whether he was congratulating himself or confirming her, but he shut the drawer with a sharp smack, the wood banging against itself, and Isabelle inhaled sharply. He tossed something up and then slid it across the desk toward her. It was a small white bag with a draw string, and she raised her eyebrows. "I believe this belongs to you, per our terms."

Her hand shook as she reached out to take it and her fingers felt too big and clumsy to undo the strings, and gasped when her ring fell onto the desk, the tiny clink ringing in her ears. "Really?" she looked at him, half expecting this to be some kind of joke, though she did not know why, and his smirk was all amusement – it appeared he liked surprises.

He nodded confirmation and Isabelle reached for the ring, her fingers trembling and feeling far too clumsy. She laughed awkwardly and fumbled to put it back on, a much missed weight restored to her hand. She felt deliriously happy, and gazed at the ring lovingly.

"No matter, dearie," he tented his hands in front of his face, smiling contentedly, almost mimicking her expression at the valuable trinket he just returned, "you were the one who worked for it. I just kept it locked away." They sat in the office, in silence for several moments before he stood, and Isabelle followed suit, because that was the thing to do.

When he went to walk past her, leading the way out, Belle stopped him with a feather light touch, and he stalled with impressive quickness. "You're a good person, Mr. Gold," she looked up at him through her thick lashes, squashing down her blush.

He cleared his throat, "I merely keep my deals, Miss French." And her hand dropped, feeling oddly like it had been pushed away with the return to cool formality.

* * *

The phone at the flower shop rarely rang, so it was odd when on a Thursday afternoon, the eager chime filled up the whole room. Isabelle's eyes tore from her catalog for summer seeds and leaned across the counter to grab it. "Game of Thorns, this is Isabelle. How can I help you?"

As soon as the voice on the other end spoke, Isabelle dropped the phone – not even waiting for the rest and stumbled from behind the counter. She grabbed her bag, hitting the lights and raced out the door. Her heart pumped the blood through her body so fast she couldn't hear anything except her own blood racing and the pressure in her head was maddening.

Her hands shook as she tried to lock the door, cursing all the while, and scratched the metal, unable to hit the center. "God dammit!" she pushed through gritted teeth and finally got the lock, "Come on!" She hated this key, it got stuck in the door and she put her foot on the frame of the door, pulling it out and tripping over herself. "Fuck!" she rarely swore, but this was an occasion.

Stumbling toward the van, Issy tried to find the key, eyes blurred with tears, and felt for it – climbing in the driver seat. She wasn't moving fast enough, she couldn't get it to go. She was practically screaming as she put the key in the ignition and turned it – the engine whirred, sputtered, and then died. "No!" she screeched, "No! Come on!"

Isabelle smacked the wheel, grabbing onto it and trying to shake it, "Work!" she kicked the gas pedal and tried to turn the key again, met with the same failure as the last. "Work, work, please dammit work!" she burst into tears. The van had been the last thing she wanted to spend money on – and now she was dealing with a dead van and – oh God.

She practically fell out of the van, stumbling forward before she dug into her purse. Pulling out her cell phone, she pressed speed dial number three and held her breath. "Please," she whimpered, "Please I need a ride." That was all she needed to say.

The Cadillac was in front of the store in minutes. Isabelle climbed into the passenger seat, a mess of tears and wild hair, frenzied and clutching onto her purse for dear life. "Hospital," she choked out and he put the car in drive, heading straight down the street, leaving the van and the flower shop in their wake.

In front of the hospital, Isabelle leaned over in the seat and without thinking, placed a kiss on Mr. Gold's cheek, her face and lips wet with tears, breathing a whispered "Thank you," against his skin before she flew out of the car and up the steps of the ER, tearing through the doors like a solar wind, sweeping up everything in her wake.

A nurse was waiting for her, and Dr. Whale was standing outside of the room. The door was closed, but Issy could see through the glass panels – there were wires everywhere, his eyes were closed. He looked so small in the bed. Isabelle felt her knees going weak. The nurse was lucky enough to catch her. "No, no, no," she shook her head into the woman's shoulder and Dr. Whale cleared his throat.

Everything was piled on her at once – his lungs, his esophagus, collapsed in the hospital, it wasn't likely – the words swam around her head and she pressed her hands to the glass, not even listening to the doctor any longer. Her breath clouded up the pane, and Issy looked at him with pleading eyes, "Can I go in?"

Dr. Whale looked surprised and then quickly pushed the door open. Isabelle pushed past him and walked straight to the side of the bed, taking her father's hand. She vaguely heard Dr. Whale explain that he wasn't going to respond, that it was only a matter of time, but Isabelle didn't listen. She stroked her father's face, held his hand, and talked. She pulled the chair over by the side of the bed and told every story she could think of – if she didn't stop, maybe he wouldn't either.

But, he did. And Isabelle did too. The sound of the flat line was like a blaring siren in her ear and Isabelle was pulled from his side, screaming as they held her back – needing he space. She reached, grabbed, and clawed, but the nurses held her at bay, and got her out of the room.

Isabelle collapsed in a chair in the waiting room. Her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. She didn't want to leave him, but here she was, sitting in the waiting room, knowing that whatever they were doing, she couldn't be there.

She felt a brush against her knee, and in between a sob and cough, Isabelle parted her fingers, seeing the line of a pinstripe, tailored pair of pants, leading down to a man's dress shoe, and the end of a cane. She didn't look up at his face, but she watched as he put his hand on her knee and gave her a gentle squeeze. Isabelle choked out a sob and put one of her hands on top of his.

He gripped on, and she squeezed so hard she thought she saw him wince, but he didn't pull away, and he stayed. When Dr. Whale walked out, head hanging, Issy already knew what he was going to say… as soon as he said it; it made it real… It was real. And he was there, holding her hand and cradling her head against his shoulder, smelling like memories holding on like it was forever.

Isabelle's disconnect with reality was restored when she felt a soft hand touch the back of her arm. "Come on, Dearie," he coaxed, but Isabelle stood still. "You don't want to catch cold." His voice was laced with sincerity and it dragged Isabelle back into the present.

She moved her hand and caught his, gripping his fingers. He gripped back, and they smiled weakly at one another. "Thank you," she smiled weakly, and he smiled in return. They began the slow ascent of the stone stairwell, toward the large wooden doors, Isabelle shifting the umbrella to cover both of them.

When they reached the top step, Isabelle stopped and Gold gave her a sidelong glance. She took a deep breath, lowering the umbrella and closing it by her side. The overhang of stone protected them from the rain in this moment, and she reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together. "I'm ready now." It always rained on the day of a funeral. And she could not have pictured it any other way.


End file.
